If Only You Were Here
by Baraboo
Summary: A Jack centric little one-shot. Took place during season 3. Jack/Sam and Sam/Martin implied.


**If only you were here**

He returned to the office, shoulders slumped and hanging his head. He briefly met her gaze. He could read compassion and also a flicker of concern. Nevertheless he knew that she would not come to find him in his office as soon as their colleagues will have left. Although he failed to accept it, these moments were in the past. He had to face this new ordeal alone, without her.

The water drummed on his chest and streamed down his thighs. It was so hot that plumes of steam enveloped him but he did not even feel the burn. He watched the water swirl and then be sucked out. He expected to see big grayish bubbles flow and disappear. But instead, the water was colored with a crimson hue. He did not understand whence came the blood. Then he saw that his wound had reopened, but he couldn't care less and continued rubbing soap on his body vigorously. He wanted nothing more than to evacuate all the dirt that stuck to his skin. But maybe this grim was present only on his mind... He felt so dirty. Tears mingled with the drops falling on his face. He wanted to be engulfed by the water. Then gradually his brain was able to disconnect and warm water soothed him. His muscles relaxed and tension which enclosed painfully his back, shoulders and neck slowly lessened. He remained a long time under the beneficial jet. 10 minutes, half an hour, an hour or more? He could not say.

Finally, he dragged himself out of the shower. The mist covered the whole mirror. This saved him having to confront himself, to see the guilt which, he knew, adorned his features.

The operation had gone wrong, very wrong. Like in a nightmare. Except that, when he reopened his eyes, nothing had changed. The woman they were seeking was still lying in a pool of blood, shot in the head. Her killer was lying a few meters away in a corner of the shabby warehouse. Jack had shot him in the chest. Everything happened very quickly. Ten seconds at most. But Jack had lived the scene in slow motion.

A crucial information had led them in that warehouse in the Bronx. When they entered Viv and Martin took the left and he took the right. They progressed slowly and cautiously. Finally, they saw the figures of the suspect and his victim. They stood on the side of his colleagues. They leveled their weapons at the kidnapper. Vivian advanced slightly and began to negotiate with the man who now had a gun pointed at his hostage.

If only he had not screwed up, Vivian would surely have succeed in apprehendind the perp and rescuing the poor girl. She would have succeeded. He knew it. But he inadvertently hit a sort of container while he tried to approach the victim and take shelter as soon as possible. But whatever he wanted to do. Whatever his intentions were. He may have acted for good reasons, the result was there. It was a massacre. And it was his fault. Entirely his fault. The man had turned his head when he heard the noise and he discovered him standing in the shadows. The perp had then panicked and killed the young woman before shooting at him. The bullet had grazed his left side. He winced but immediately shot back, touching the man fatally. He closed his eyes and when he looked again, Martin gazed at him. His colleague was staring at him with an incredulity strongly tinged with reproach. As for Vivian, true to herself, she was handling the situation. She was talking on the phone but he did not discern a word. He froze for what seemed an eternity and then, almost surprised to still being able to move, he went to the exit without a word.

He spent the rest of the afternoon in autopilot. He vaguely remembered being treated by a doctor in the back of an ambulance parked near the warehouse. Then he came back, alone, to the office; how could he have driven in his condition he did not know. There, he saw Sam who apparently was already aware of the situation. One look and he understood that this time she would not let him cling on her, and he fell in the depths of despair.

He pulled his knees and his arms over his chest as if to protect himself. His bed seemed way too big, way too cold. He curled even more, feeling empty and desperately lonely.

He knew he could always go see Lisa Harris, but he also knew she could not help much. Not as much as her. It was impossible. Nobody could replace her. He needed Sam so badly. Only her understood him, knew how to comfort him and ease his pain. But she was not there. Not anymore. Ever.


End file.
